Going Home
by Storm-of-Stars
Summary: Doctor John Watson has gone on three years without Sherlock Holmes. And then he recieves a very familiar text.


It had been three years since Dr John Watson has seen 221B Baker Street.

There was a reason for this, of course; it had been all over the papers for months—

'_Sherlock Holmes was announced dead today after witnesses say they saw him jumping from the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital at approximately 1:00PM. The detective, who had lived in 221B Baker Street with his flatmate and assistant, Dr John Watson, had allegedly claimed to being a fake and creating the identity of James Moriarty- the man in question having been trialled for the theft of the crown jewels from the Tower of London a month previously and found innocent- before committing apparent suicide. The late Mr Holmes's brother, Mycroft Holmes, had no comment….'_

John could never bring himself to read anymore. They all said the same things anyway. He was supposed to be moving on.

He had told Mrs Hudson that he couldn't go back to the flat just yet, though he assured her we would at some point. He still payed his rent, he hadn't moved anything; for all intents and purposes, 221B was the same as always. Except when it wasn't.

For the first few months, John had simply floated around everywhere _but_ the flat; he had shown up at Sarah's, Molly's, Lestrade's eventually, and even Stamford's. He had tried to spend a little while with Harry, but it hadn't gone well, and he had returned to Sarah's sofa once more.

He did go back, once, nearing the end of the year. He had let himself in (Mrs Hudson was out, but of course he still had his key), and made his way slowly up the stairs; it was harder now that his limp was back. The door to the room had been open, as it always had, and it looked so achingly familiar and right that for a moment, John was about to call out for Sherlock, worried that there was no noise (never a good sign with the good detective), only to stop abruptly when the memories hit him quite hard and very deliberately, and it took him a little longer than he should have liked to walk slowly back downstairs and face Mrs Hudson (who had returned somewhere in the middle of all of this).

John didn't go back to 221B after that.

He moved back into the old, tiny flat the army had provided, and stayed there.

He didn't go back to work at the clinic, though Sarah had received no letter of resignation. He never accepted Lestrade's invitations to go drinking on Fridays. He never really left his room, even to do the shopping; Molly was constantly bringing round food for him, bless her. The only time he occasionally left was for his therapist, and even then he was constantly skipping sessions; whenever he did go, he was always withdrawn, always looked worse than the last time. Eventually, he just stopped with it altogether. She couldn't help him; no one could.

And that was the way it went on. For almost three years, this was how John Watson lived.

And then, he got a text.

He had been in that odd, groggy state between asleep and awake at the time, despite the fact that it was nearly noon; sleeping was something he did a lot these days. He didn't realise he'd heard it, actually, but he decided to wake, so he must have. He'd gone to check his phone, which was lying on the bedside table where his cane was propped next to it, to check the time and had been astounded to see he had a text.

It was a miracle he recognised the number at all, really, but after sending so many texts from the phone in question did apparently pay off, because he recognised it so immediately that he swore he stopped breathing for a few moments. He opened the text quickly, and this was what it said:

_I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. –S.H. _

John thought for a moment.

Was this a joke? Some cruel, sick joke being played on him, to rub in the fact that he had let his friend die, had stood there watching as he jumped from the roof of St Bart's? But that was nigh impossible. Mycroft had collected the phone from the rooftop afterwards, and it had been broken, and he had discarded of it, and shown John the proof of his doing so. So Mycroft couldn't have the phone, and he was the only other person in London who could possibly get into the phone of Sherlock Holmes (Irene Adler did not count, as she was no longer in London—or anywhere, really. There were still the occasional texts here and there form her various 'vacation' spots around the world, but nothing more). And very few people knew that simple phrase as well as he did—one of them being the aforementioned Woman.

And then, all of a sudden, John didn't actually care. He didn't care if this was some cruel trick, because he realised that he still believed in Sherlock Holmes, damning all the evidence to show him otherwise. And what if this was his only chance to find out?

He thought quickly this time, and was out the door in seconds, phone in hand and cane forgotten on the floor.

He ran past Angelo's (too public) and Scotland Yard (too noticeable), Baker Street (too easily recognised) and even the swimming pool, all the way to the power station. The place where he and Irene had met, where Sherlock had followed him, and received that same text from The Woman herself after he begged her to return, for Sherlock's sake. He just prayed he was right.

He was slow and quiet inside, half wanting to be heard, half wanting to be silent as he made his way to the main switch room. God, please let him be right. He turned a corner—

And there he was.

His back was to John, but dear God, he could recognise the man anywhere; the mop of dark curls, the tall, lanky legs obscured by the large trench-coat; he was even wearing the scarf. It was the very picture of Sherlock Holmes, the last he'd seen of him before those dreadful moments outside St Bart's.

John stopped about 20 feet away.

There were so many things he wanted to do and say- he wanted to yell at Sherlock for doing what he did, he wanted to hug him for being back, wanted to punch him even harder than that day in Belgravia, wanted to cry for relief at his being alive—but his throat felt hoarse, like it was filled with sawdust.

So instead, he croaked out weakly, "I got your message."

The detective's head whipped around at such a pace that John could wince at the crack he imagined it making, but oh God that didn't matter in the slightest because it was Sherlock Holmes staring at him with those piercing grey eyes and that ridiculously pale face and the man he thought was dead for three entire bloody years was in fact alive and well.

"John."

It was strange to hear his own name being called from that mouth again, and so quietly; he remembered all the times it was '_John! Can you grab my phone_?' or _'JOHN! I'm bored!' _or even the occasional, _'What do you think, Doctor Watson?'_

"You're alive," was said doctor's reply. Sherlock's mouth opened a few times, as though he was going to say something, no doubt witty or biting or some sarcastic comment about _No, of course I'm not alive John, I only just sent you a text saying I wasn't and now I'm standing before you, of course I'm dead _but instead he settled for a nod, and a soft,

"Yes, I am."

There was silence for a moment, before the pale man spoke again, "I thought you might not come."

"I thought that if I didn't, I'd never get another chance."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, and John watched with an absent fascination as the curls stirred slightly in a breeze.

"No. I'd have waited for you."

Holmes had started to advance towards him, with slow careful movements, as if he might flee at any moment; his ridiculously large stride (he was so tall, after all) had him within a foot of John in moments, and his paper-white spidery hand was extended towards John. "It's good to see you again, Doctor Watson."

Instead of taking the offered hand, John pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace; he feared that if he loosened his grip any, the detective would disappear and never return. The taller man returned it gingerly, and John was deeply touched at the gesture.

They stayed like that for a little bit, John's face pressed gently into Sherlock's shoulder (when had he started crying?) and Sherlock letting him, hands resting gently on the doctor's shoulders, before John finally pulled away, trying to erase any evidence of the aforementioned tears.

Sherlock looked at him a little apprehensively and said, "I'm sorry John, I am—" He was forced to cut that sentence short however when a very solid fist crashed into his jaw, and the force of the blow as coupled with his already natural unbalanced footing (nobody that tall could ever get away without _some _moments of clumsiness, as much as they may try) sent him sprawling to the ground, left staring up at the fair-haired John Hamish Watson in bewilderment.

"Sorry," John muttered, shrugging slightly and already looking a little remorseful (he might have been in the army and he might have had bad days, but that doesn't mean he enjoyed hurting people who didn't deserve it. People who did, however, well, we already know how he feels about them.) Sherlock blinked for several moments and felt carefully at the slowly swelling spot, wincing ever-so-slightly, but managed to pull himself together in the next minute.

"No, it's… It's fine. I deserved it," he said, slowly pulling himself up.

"No, no, it's not," John said, running a hand through his short hair. "I shouldn't have…. It's just… You were dead, you know?"

Here the good doctor gave an uneasy laugh. "I thought you were dead, and now…" There was a deep inhale, and a slow exhale. "Anyway, sorry. I'll fix it up once we get back to…." The sentence trailed off, and Sherlock already knew why; of course he did. He could read John like a book; always could, still can, always would be able to.

"Of course, we _will_ be going back to Baker Street. I'm sure Mrs Hudson has missed both her boys terribly. I do hope she hasn't thrown away any of my equipment."

"So, you are going back then?"

"_We're _going back, John," Sherlock said, already striding past and looking back over his shoulder for his companion. "You and I. Flatmates, remember?"

"Of course, but—"

"Come along, John. We're going home."

And Doctor John Watson smiled for the first time in a very long while.


End file.
